


Hit Man

by EchoThruTheWoods, Razziecat (EchoThruTheWoods)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Domestic Violence, discussion of hitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:52:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/Razziecat
Summary: It can be difficult to view one's own actions with objectivity, especially when you've lived your life playing fast and loose with the rules.





	Hit Man

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is actually a companion or side piece to the "Foundling" AU. Chronologically, it would take place between Chapters 37 & 38 ("Planning Meeting" and "Rescue Mission").
> 
> PLEASE NOTE, a discussion of hitting one's partner follows. The actions are described in not-too-graphic detail, but if such references cause you discomfort or distress, feel free to skip this piece. You shall not be judged ;)

After days of planning, not to mention angst, arguments, and unpleasant revelations, the Deepground rescue operation was nearly ready to roll. They were down to the final thirty-six hours before launch, and as the sun fell below the horizon, Veld decided it was high time for a break.

He went outside, onto the terrace on the second level, to sit for a while and think. That was where Reeve found him.

“Ah, there you are.” Reeve sat on the bench across from Veld’s. “I rang your office, thought you’d gone home when you didn’t answer.”

“What do you need?” Veld flicked ash from his cigarette, glancing at Reeve. The head of the WRO looked a little shop-worn--Reeve’s day usually started around five o’clock in the morning--but his eyes were still sharp, his movements still brisk.

“Nothing, really,” said Reeve. “Just wanted to check to make sure you had everything _you_ need. This is going to be a big operation. I don’t want to miss anything.”

“We’re all set,” said Veld. “Team leads have all confirmed they’re ready to roll when you give the word. I’ll check my notes before I knock off for the night, but everything looks good.”

“Excellent.” Reeve leaned back, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a flask, dark leather chased with silver leaves, and offered it to Veld. “Help yourself.”

“Private stock, eh?” Veld took it, flipping the cap.

“Keeps the chill off.”

Veld drank, savoring the burn of good whiskey down his throat. He handed the flask back to Reeve.

They sat for a few minutes in silence, each taking a second mouthful of whiskey. Veld stretched his legs out, absently noting the twinges in his knees. A muscle in his back also complained, unwelcome reminder of his encounter with Mask after Vincent’s shadow-sword had perforated his son.

That thought brought up others that he’d been avoiding for days, letting them simmer in the back of his mind. Maybe it was time to let off some steam.

“Reeve, you got a few minutes? Got something on my mind, and I’ve been a Turk too long to see it clearly. I’d appreciate your input.”

“I’d be honored,” Reeve said, “but are you sure you wouldn’t rather talk to Tseng?”

“It’s not a Turk issue. Not directly.”

“All right then. Go on.”

“Well, I’ll just ask you straight out. Am I abusing Vincent?”

Reeve blinked. “Veld, what on Gaia would make you think so?”

Veld took a moment to light another cigarette. “Have you seen the tapes of those incidents with Nero in the simulator?”

“It’s digital now,” said Reeve with a faint smile, “but yes, I have.”

“Then you’ve seen me hit Vincent.”

“I also saw him go after you with a knife.” Reeve held up a hand as Veld started to speak. “Yes, I know it was his headmate in charge, but the point is, you had to defend yourself.”

“That was only part of it,” said Veld, watching the red ember on the end of his cigarette. “The main reason I hit him was to knock Hellmasker loose. It’s the quickest way.”

“Then why would you think you’re abusive?”

“Well, it certainly appeared that way to Nero. He thought I was punishing Vincent for his mistake.”

“Hardly an unbiased perspective,” Reeve said, his voice dry. “The boy sees everything through a Deepground filter. I know you’d never do that.”

“There’s more,” said Veld. “I hit him again the day he stabbed Nero. I pulled Vince into my office. Mask took over and jumped me. We fought, but it was over pretty fast.”

Quietly, Veld counted off on the fingers of his metal hand. “Once when Nero took me into the void, and Vincent’s fear for me brought Mask out; second time right after that, when Vince had a meltdown in my office; and third time when I shoved him off me and he smacked his head going down.”

Meeting Reeve’s eyes was harder than he’d anticipated; the urge to scrub his hands clean of blood came over him, and that was a bad joke. His hands had been metaphorically bloody for thirty-some years.

“Okay,” said Reeve. “Was there another way to handle it? Could Mask be reasoned with, coaxed, bribed…?”

Veld shook his head. “I don’t think so. When he attacks, he’s got all Vincent’s skills and physical enhancements, on top of his own cunning and more dirty tricks than any five Turks put together. Vincent tells me he’s often surprised at what Mask comes up with, and that’s with the bastard living in Vince’s head.”

“Then I don’t see what else you could have done. No one would blame you for defending yourself.”

“But what if I’m wrong, Reeve? What if there’s another way and I’m just too--” He stopped. He’d been about to say too _blind_ to see it, but the truth was something else.

“What if I’m too _angry_ to see it?” He watched the cigarette smoke curl into the night sky, watched the river of lights passing on the highway below. “Too hardened, too jaded--I don’t even know the right words.”

“Veld,” said Reeve very quietly, “do you like hitting Vincent? Does it give you some kind of pleasure, or satisfaction? Do you feel that he--I don’t know, _deserves_ it?”

Veld’s gaze snapped back to Reeve’s face. “I don’t enjoy it. I hate it. As much as Mask irritates me, even frightens me sometimes, it always feels like I’ve failed when I hit him. What worries me is the fear that I’ll continue to do it.”

“Does it happen often?”

“I don’t know how to answer that. Mask doesn’t come out often. I’ve hit one of the other headmates exactly once, and it didn’t work anyway.” Veld gave a small, twisted smile. “That one could have eaten me for lunch.”

“Have you had to do it every time Mask came out?”

“No. Only if he gets violent.”

“And have you ever--forgive me, but I know you want an honest opinion from me--have you ever struck Vincent for any other reason? When he’s just Vincent?”

“Once. That day in my office, when he got hysterical. Never before that, or since.  I’ll swear that on Felicia’s grave.”

“Then I don’t believe you’re abusive. But I think what really counts is how you feel about it. You and Vincent both. Have you talked to him about this?”

“I have not,” said Veld, “because I know what he’s going to say. He’d excuse me taking an axe to him if he thought Mask might harm me or Nero.” He dropped his voice an octave or so. “ ' _I’ll regenerate, Veld, don’t worry about it.’_ ”

He snorted, and took a drag on his cigarette. “Mister Glutton for Punishment Valentine would just pat me on the head and tell me he’s fine, and that the blood will come out of the carpet eventually.”

“Then you may be worried for nothing.”

“Yeah. Sure. Probably.”

Veld finished his cigarette, crushed it out in the stone ashtray beside the bench.

“But, see, Reeve, here’s the thing.”

He wove his fingers together, metal pressing flesh and bone so hard it left deep red marks on his hand.

“I would rip my remaining arm off, if it would spare Vincent pain. And the thought that _I’m_ the one hurting him is....I can’t…”

He stopped, taking a slow breath. “Sorry. Maudlin old man. Last thing you need on the eve of a major task--”

“Veld.” Reeve’s hand was warm on his shoulder, kneading the knotted tendons there. “Don’t apologize for being human. Vincent’s not the only one allowed a little angst, you know.”

“Yeah, well, it looks better on him.” Veld shifted, and Reeve took the hint, letting go. Veld rose, resting his arms on the brick wall that edged the terrace.

“I can’t afford that kind of self-indulgence.” He glanced at Reeve over his shoulder. “I’ve always believed in the saying _no rest for the wicked_. It tends to play out that way.”

“Well, even the wicked need to get some sleep. I intend to. As your CEO, I’m telling _you_ to go home and do that, too. And if Mask shows up---lock him outside.”

“Easier said than done. He’d just pick the lock, and then he’d pick a fight. And I’d be right back in the same position.”

“If that happens, call me. No matter what time it is. I’ll come and help you sit on Mask until he gives up and goes away.”

Veld laughed in spite of himself. “I might have to take you up on that. It’s better than the way I’ve been handling it, although Vincent wouldn’t speak to either of us for a week.”

“I’ll take that risk. So did talking it over help at all?”

“Yeah. It did. Gave me some things to consider.”

Hell, maybe it was time to bite the bullet, find a counselor. He’d urged Vincent to do it, and Vincent had finally agreed; how could Veld do less?

“Thanks, Reeve. I appreciate it.”

“Any time, Chief. And I mean that literally.”

\---

 


End file.
